Numb
by Bryher
Summary: Over the years she’d come to accept that if she turned her back for a moment, if her guard went down for a fraction of a second, she’d be dead. ONESHOT.


**Title;** Numb

**Rating;** T

**Summary; **Over the years she'd come to accept that if she turned her back for a moment, if her guard went down for a fraction of a second, she'd be dead.

**Authors Note;** Gory, and with some depression. Written to Linkin Park's 'Numb' and 'Breaking the Habit'. References are in there.

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Hermione Granger was not someone who gave in easily. Truth was, she'd never had the stomach to give in. It seemed too much like suicide, and suicide was for people too cowardly to take a step into the hopeless. Yes. It was suicide to give up.

At least, it was suicide if you were best friends with Harry Potter.

Over the years she'd come to accept that if she turned her back for a moment, if her guard went down for a fraction of a second, she'd be dead.

Hermione's parents had found that out the hard way. Last winter, a few days before Christmas, Hermione had gone to drop off some presents and found her parents slaughtered, courtesy of Sectumsempra. Voldemort may have been dead, but many of his supporters weren't.

At the moment, she sat at the table in Grimmauld Place, staring at the stained woodwork and listening to Kreacher's mutinous ramblings.

"Kreacher," she said softly and quite suddenly, making the house elf jump.

"Shut up."

It was a turning point. Kreacher seemed to hate every single person who didn't support Voldemort. And he'd had a hand in killing Sirius. Hermione narrowed her eyes at her hands, which rested on the table top. They were bruised and bloodied; the index finger on her left hand sat at an odd angle and looked purple in colour. She knew that the blood from her broken nose was streaming over the lower half of her face and dripping onto the table.

She ached all over. Ribs, right knee, jaw, nose…shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she tried to take a deep breath and winced at the stabbing feeling in her side.

Harry had told her not to go looking for trouble, but she'd gone anyway. With a short bark of laughter bordering on hysteria, she lowered her head to the tabletop and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

The stupid thing was that this hadn't been done by a Wizard or Witch. Hermione had gone to a nondescript muggle bar and started a fight.

It was a stupid thing to do, she knew. And she'd never done it before, but it was something to distract her from the spells and magic around her. Hogwarts and the Wizarding world still didn't seem entirely real to her, and it was comforting to feel fists on flesh and feeling blood actually pumping around the body. It was better than standing in the silent lines, waiting for an attack, clutching a thin bit of wood.

For the brightest witch of her time, Hermione didn't trust magic at all.

The clock at the side of the kitchen began to chime three, and Hermione didn't move.

It was only when the kitchen door creaked open that the twenty year old lifted her head sharply.

Harry Potter's expression went from friendly to shocked to angry to concerned in record time.

"Hermione! What happened?" He whispered loudly, sliding in and shutting the door behind him. He hurried over and tilted Hermione's face in one hand, eyes worried as they took in the blood and gore covering the small witch. Hermione realised she must look as though she'd been through Hell.

It was pointless lying, so she opted for the silent route. She simply shook her head tiredly and dragged herself up from the chair. Using the table as a support, she looked at the Man Who Killed The Dark Lord.

"I'm going to bed," she said softly.

Harry moved in front of her as she tried to move away and gently pushed her back down into the seat. Hermione felt like crying all over again. Lifting a bloody hand to mud covered curls, she gasped as her broken finger got caught in a tangle and jerked sharply. Harry sat down beside her and set down a muggle first aid kit.

"I don't know how I got this way, Harry. I was never like this." Hermione said suddenly.

"You'll be alright."

"I'll never be alright. I've become so numb."

"So that's why you go and get into bar fights?" Harry asked quietly, raising green eyes to her hazel. He fixed her with that look, his black hair falling into his gaze. Hermione looked away first.

"I've never done that before."

"Why tonight?"

Hermione could hear the anger in his voice, alongside the concern and heartbreak.

"I…I've become so tired, Harry. I feel smothered. By everything. The war, the Ministry… every step that I take is another mistake. Every second I waste is more than I can take. They're still out there. And I hate it."

Harry didn't reply, but instead took the hand with the broken finger into his larger palms.

Forcibly, he pushed the bone back into place. Hermione didn't flinch.

Next, he cleaned up her face, fixing her nose with magic and sterilising the small cuts along the side of her face with antiseptic wipes.

"Where else does it hurt?"

"It doesn't matter. It's nothing that won't heal in the next few days."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment, then he stood, holding out a hand. Hermione took it silently and was pulled up into a strong arms. Harry and Hermione stood there for a long while, in silence.

Hermione pulled away first. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll tidy up down here."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Halfway out the door, Harry called her name softly. Everything he could have said was in his voice. Hermione didn't turn around.

"Goodnight, Harry."

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